Such Great Heights [Logan]

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Spring brings with it its own set of promises, of rebirth made realized; a revolution won hard through the cold winter has faded to distant memory, has been overtaken with new growth. It is a change represented in more than a simple turning of seasons. There is a small, lakeside cabin that is a testament to their triumph; there is the endless pleasure found in building a home – a family – a world centered around two men and a dog. Beyond the house’s neat lawn is only the wild silence of a deep and limitless forest, and it is a stillness matched by the peace within the cabin’s walls. Here is comfort; here is a lasting happiness drawn from solitude and privacy.

A brilliant sunset bleeds the sky purple, drops the temperature to something brisk and refreshing, and it is only then that the steady rumble of a familiar engine cuts through the evening’s reverie. A weathered Ford pickup – dented and battered, but still resolutely running – rounds the final curve of the gravel drive, an assorted collection of items from the hardware store rattling loudly in its bed. From the house, a grown white dog announces Nathan’s arrival with series of barks and whines; Lark is grinning at him from the living room window as he parks beside the front porch and slides the key from the ignition. That this scene has become familiar, a sampling of the small and blessed world he has somehow been lucky enough to call his life, is not lost upon him; Nate is possessed by a private smile as he exits the cab and makes for the door.

Logan has been good to him – for him. Married life has been good for him. Memories and fears of Blackwater have grown hazy with the fog of time and distance; those concerns and worries no longer dominate his mind, are instead replaced with an enduring fidelity and peace centered around one man alone. Lazy days filled with the simple pleasure of living, of renovating the house, of spending time with his husband – they are more than Nate could have ever asked for, and more than he ever expected to have. Each sunrise is a reminder of his fortune, and Logan beside him every morning is a luxury he will never tire of, will never overlook.

His only fear now is that he will somehow awake from what must be a dream.

There are reminders, subtle manifestations of hard lessons learned, but they, too, have become mundane. Nathan disables a silent alarm upon entering the cabin in a gesture that is now routine; there is a cruel assortment of scars carved upon his skin that his gaze no longer stutters upon. Past traumas have left their mark, but the Duvalls are nothing like broken. Lark descends from her perch on the back of the couch and cavorts about his feet, nails clattering on the hardwood as she expresses her unadulterated, animal joy in prancing paws and plaintive whines; Nate placates her with a few affectionate pats before stealing towards the kitchen. There is no telltale scent of dinner wafting on the air and the werewolf takes it as a good sign. He has plans for the evening, vague ideas he’d like to make a reality, and the thought has him grinning slyly as he discards his jacket and seeks Logan out.

His search proves successful; his hands slip to the other man’s waist, his body pressed up behind him, and Nathan’s lips settle at the crook of Logan’s neck. The curve of his smile is apparent on the hunter’s skin, and he lingers there in a slow, lazy moment. ”Fancy meeting you here,” Nate chuckles, pulling away to let the man face him. That hint of excitement, of anticipation, still plays about his features, reflective of that exuberance Logan always brings out in him; the werewolf sneaks a quick, chaste kiss, before leaning up against the kitchen table.

”I found everything you wanted, if you’d give me a hand unloading.” Restoring the old shed was at the bottom of their original list of tasks, and Nate wonders how they’ll waste their time with the big projects knocked out of the way. He figures he should probably get a job – and finds himself in no rush. ”—but I thought we could go out tonight, after.” That smile makes its bold return, clever and coaxing; Nate lifts his chin slightly, head gently inclined to one side, and rests his palms behind him on the table. ”There’s a carnival in town. Figured we could grab a light dinner, make a date of it, if you wanted.” It is the sort of ridiculous, wholesome evening he has come to enjoy spending with Logan alone. The prospect has him grinning.

”I’ll even win you something. Buy you funnel cake.” He is teasing, now, charming the man along when it is entirely unnecessary – because Nathan has no doubt that they will go, but the opportunity to indulge Logan is not one to be missed.

[Logan]

A tumultuous life finds fair weather and calm water within a cabin nestled near a forest tree line. The smell of spruce is fresh cut in the evening air, sharp and revitalizing as the sun sets and the temperature cools to the satisfying seventies. Logan is a man approaching the midpoint of a century’s worth of life. He is nearly over the hill, or maybe he has long since passed that milestone years before. His body feels it – the daily reminder that he is no young and spry colt, but more of a draft horse put out to pasture. It is a reminder spoken through the persistent ache in his bones, in the collection of scars delivered by both accident and purposeful action.

Near the hill, over it or beyond, Logan has finally found his stride. The cabin provides more than shelter. It is a statement, a testament that he and Nathan have struck out on their own and succeeded. Within their world, there are no longer wolves nipping at their heels. Here, Logan remembers what it means to be human. There is no pack. There are no persistent dangers or strange politics to contend with. There is only them a neat, easy and comfortable concept that shapes every new day into a gift.

The ache in his knee and the crick in his back have always been a minor inconvenience, but Logan no longer feels an inkling of exasperation when they act up. Their cabin is not an impenetrable fortress but Nathan has seen to putting a network of defense into place. Logan now knows the certainty of security. Weeks, months may have passed before he relaxed enough to stop constantly looking over his shoulder, but the paranoia birthed by warring wolves and gnashing teeth finally, for the most part, dissipated.

Here, he is allowed to feel old. Here, he is allowed to revel in a life well-earned. There will never be an official retirement for Logan Duvall but the months have been kind, and he has basked in the ability to simply watch the world go by with an eased heart and a nostalgic smile. There is work to be seen to here and there; Logan finds satisfaction in seeing to the cabin’s needs, but largely, on the hunter’s part, he simply enjoys the peace – often in the form of long daytime naps. There is a particular spot near a shade-tree that overlooks the lake that Logan has taken to. For a man born and bred in the forests of Alaska, the cabin and the surrounding area is his own personal piece of heaven.

The lazy hours have passed and Logan has accomplished little, and that is fine. There are no deadlines to meet, no obligations to worry over. Each day begins and toddles on until it finds its own pace and rhythm. Logan is content to go with the flow and finds no reason or desire to pursue anything; he is in possession of everything he could possibly need. The hunter lingers in the kitchen and contemplates dinner as he peers outside of the window. Deer have taken a liking to the garden outside but Logan cannot find the heart to chase them away. They are not white doves but Logan sees them as similar ambassadors of peace, a barometer for how safe the area is.

Lark’s nails tap against the floor in a ruckus. Logan smiles. He has long learned the tell-tale noises of his family. The sound of Nathan’s breathing when he is asleep, the sound of his heartbeat, the noise Lark makes when one of them arrives home. He turns in time to catch Nathan in a one-armed embrace. ”Nah, I thought I’d just sit here and let you handle it,” he jests. Logan meets Nathan’s smile with an easy upturn of his lips. ”Saves me from thinking up what to cook.” He claps his hand on Nathan’s shoulder and squeezes. ”But work first, play later-- Gotta keep you trained.” Logan’s voice borders on teasing as he moves outside to unload.

”That should be it,” Logan declares and slaps the dust out of his hands. The wooden paneling needs to be cut to size, uneven surfaces need to meet the sander. Out of habit, his mind begins to organize the tasks needed to accomplish the shed’s renovation. But the shed can wait – there is a far more tantalizing concept hanging in the air. ”You mentioned funnel cake?” Amused eyes settle onto Nathan and Logan decides to play it coy. ”I guess that might be enough of an incentive for me to retire from the hermit life –for the night.”

Carnivals and places full of people inspire little interest in the hunter. He prefers the solitude, the ability to pretend that no one exists but his small family of two men and one dog. But for Nathan, anything.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

”I think you already domesticated me well enough,” Nate laughs, and the smile sticks with him as they finish unloading the contents of the truck’s bed. Truer words may never have been spoken – the werewolf’s life with Logan is a far cry from the goals and expectations he once had of himself, and Nathan has found that suits him just fine. He tosses Logan the keys from across the hood of the pickup and his expression grows into a lopsided grin. ”You want funnel cake, you got funnel cake. Anything.” The old Ford rumbles to life; Nathan climbs inside and regards Logan with a quirked brow. ”—but I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

And Nathan does not break his promises – least of all ones of such magnitude.

Dinner is a simple affair. They have mapped the small city’s collection of restaurants despite their infrequent visits, and the one Nate selects is a recurring favorite. They are known, here, and the few glances they receive – entering close, Nate’s hand at Logan’s back – are ones of casual acceptance. Though he is not a man for overt public displays of affection, the werewolf has long since stopped caring about appearances; they are married, and the matching silver bands about their fingers state as much plainly. That they have at last faded from the latest town gossip is peace enough.

They make easy small talk and indulge in comfortable silences; Nathan’s fingers fumble once with his fork, but the clumsy motion goes unnoticed. There is an amount of strength and dexterity that never managed to return to his right hand, but it is another result of the trials of Blackwater that has become routine, adapted to, and nearly forgotten. The wolf inside him no longer chafes and paces in wild paranoia at such gestures of weakness; Nathan himself takes it all in stride with a newfound – or rediscovered – nonchalance. If there are more lines on his face than are befitting a man in his mid-thirties, so be it. If the price Nate has paid for this private happiness is a suspicious mistrust of other human beings and a series of lurking aches and pains, it will have been worth it.

They have made it through hellfire and come out alive – and somehow, at the end of it all, better than where they began. If Nathan grins more than usual, it is only thanks to the easy joy spending time with Logan inspires.

The fairgrounds are expansive, a jarring display of noise and crowds. The night is lit with lights and music – with a cacophony of sounds that, for a moment, Nathan finds strangely and achingly familiar. There is a brief unease, a twisting, that settles just beneath his ribcage and coils, and it is a tell manifested in the way his fingers slide along the small of Logan’s back for the comfort of touch. The feeling is gone in an instant, smothered or ignored or relaxed away, and the werewolf flashes the other man a grin as he purchases their tickets and escorts him inside. It has been weeks since they managed the effort to get out of the house for anything resembling a date, and despite the apparent ridiculousness of the evening, Nathan is clearly pleased.

”C’mon,” he urges, taking Logan by the hand. ”I’m gonna win you a goddamn stuffed bear.” In all likelihood it will be the other way around – asking Logan to participate in any mock shooting gallery might just count as cheating – but Nate does not plan on being outdone. He leads them through the gathered throngs of people, past the rides and vendors, and straight to the midway, where he pauses beside a stall with air rifles and brightly colored targets. The look the werewolf shoots the hunter is both assessing and clever, and he selects a weapon at random.

”You win,” Nate proposes, ”you pick what we do next.” His hand slides down the barrel of the rifle; the man eases up against the front of the stall, casual and endlessly smug. ”I win,” comes the kicker, ”—I get a favor. And you go on the ferris wheel with me.” The werewolf is grinning, now, encouraging and roguish. So what if his end of the bargain is more than one-sided and intentionally vague? Logan has the odds of skill and practice on his side, and a victory here should be simple enough—

—but the light in Nathan’s eyes speaks of all the confidence in the world.